Save Us: Book 1, Contaminated
by Class A Team
Summary: When was the day the dead came back to life? The day everyone started running? When fear was so strong it almost killed us? ALMOST. I'm Heather Ryan, and this is my story. Rated T for language and violence.


**Hello everyone. My name is Skylar, but you can call me Mist. This is my first story so please, no flames. I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead**

_Chapter One: I see the Dead_

When was it that feasting died? The day everything changed? And why? My name is Heather Ryan, and I could start at any point in my miserable life, but let's begin the day it all changed….forever.

I was 11. My sister Lydia was crying about not having a pet….again. She was seven so it was understandable, but do you really want to live with a whiney seven-year-old?

Answer: Not really.

But I couldn't help it. Mom and Dad where out on a shopping spree, so I was left being the baby sitter.

Like always.

I was honestly going to stuff a sock in her mouth if she didn't shove one in herself, but I was saved from doing that. Well, maybe I was saved but not by the best cause. The door started rattling and I turned towards it. I wasn't the bravest person you might meet, but all the same I grabbed a nearby frying pan. I told Lydia to go into the bathroom and lock the door and that I would knock three times if I needed to get in.

Thankfully she actually listened to me.

I held the frying pan in one hand and I grabbed a knife from the counter, holding it in my left hand. I was a lefty so that might have helped. The door was now shaking so violently I was sure it was going to break off its hinges.

And it did.

It had been two seconds, maybe an hour, but the door fell to the ground with a loud thump sound. I was so scared I thought I wouldn't make it, but it seemed my legs knew what to do. Instinctively they ran for the bathroom where Lydia had hopefully remembered I was to knock three times. I banged on the door. One. Two. Three. I hoped the… whatever they where, hadn't noticed me. I didn't know I could be so wrong.

The door creaked open and Lydia's face appeared, damp with still-flowing tears. I shoved her back and stepped inside, slamming the door and locking it.

"W-what's going on?" Lydia asked. Her voice was trembling and her hands were shaking.

"I don't know, Lydia." I answer. I was being honest. I had no idea what those things where. I looked out the tiny hole in the bathroom door I had made two years ago when I had gotten upset and stabbed the door with a knife.

Oh, my parents got so mad at me I was scared for my life.

But, that's not the point. I looked through and what I saw terrified me. They looked almost human, but their skin was ripped in odd places, and they were pale white. Blood trickled down the sides of mouths and cheeks, and their cloths were shredded. They were walking oddly, some limped, others were missing limbs, and some had bones jutting out of their torn flesh.

They seemed to be looking for something….or someone ….us. But I noticed one thing about them before they noticed us.

We were fast.

They were slow.

I felt a tugging sensation on my hoodie. Lydia pulled me back. I realized that my hands were sweating and one was on the door knob, my knuckles white.

"Heather, what's going on?" Lydia asked me. I heard the fear in her voice.

"Lydia, we need to find food, and we need to get out of here. The dead are out."

I'm not sure when or why I started calling them 'The Dead' but I thought it suited them. Lydia made a small complaint, and I saw it catch one of the dead's attentions.

"Shh!" I whisper. "Not so loud!"

A particularly fat one looked right at the door, before walking in some other direction. It knocked over a spoon on the table as it walked by, and the rest of them started towards the sound.

Sound. It attracts them.

Reluctantly, I opened the cupboard over the sink and took out one of Mom's lipsticks. I cracked the door open ever so slightly and threw with all my might.

Archery class paid off.

It landed seven to eight feet outside the front door, and the Dead scrambled after it. I rushed out and pulled the door onto its hinges, locking it and dragging a sofa in front.

"Lydia! Help me!" I huffed at the seven-year-old.

She scurried out, chestnut brown hair flowing out behind her as she helped stack objects in front of the door. Thankfully, we had no back door. One way in, one way out.

"What where those?" Lydia asked, her breaths coming in long pants.

"The Dead." I managed to say. I ran into my room before she had a chance to say anything else. I grabbed my school bag and Lydia's as well, dumping out all the things in it on my bed. Then I ran into my parent's room with our bags on my back. I took mom and dad's camping back pack and put it on.

"What are you doing?" Lydia asks, completely dumbfounded.

"No time." I say quickly, stuffing food in the camping bag. Tuna, rice, crackers, salami, etc. My bag I fill up with essentials, like matches, wood and tarps. I fill up Lydia's bag with a few items, like blanket's and heating pads. I was surprised to find that we actually had all that in our house.

I ran over to Lydia and handed her her bag. She put it on as I put on mine and my parents'.

"It's heavy!" Lydia complained.

"I gave you the lightest one, so shush up!" I snap. I didn't mean to, but I couldn't help it in this situation. As a last minute thought, I grabbed a family photo off a desk near my parent's bedroom. I shoved it in my bag. I don't know why I took it, maybe to remember my parents, or maybe to remember the better days.

Maybe it would get better?

I had no idea that I could have thought something so absurd. But I headed back to Lydia, who was putting on her coat. I grabbed my own, but I had no time to put it on.

Lydia screamed and a hand smashed through the window, inches away from my blond hair.


End file.
